what if

I hear the watery click

of glass mancala pieces

in shallow wooden bowls.

I see California sunlight,

pink fairy wings shedding silver glitter

onto a light caramel carpet.

I see aloe vera growing

thick in terra cotta pots,

the smell of empanadas and tamales

drifting through a sliding glass patio door -

a door you had to cover in stickers because I

ran into it so many times

I remember worn wooden tables,

plastic chairs, wire frames.

you would give me a handful of cool coins

to filter through my fingers and

I would run my hands across the

embossed top of your leather bible

(it was not a bible, but it was close enough).

I remember voices, speaking as one,

rising and falling, speaking as one:

‘god, grant me the serenity...’

and I would whisper along,

holding tight to your sleeve

in my cotton dresses

jelly shoes

I can see Tijuana in my mind

fiery hot, covered in red banners

and unfamiliar smells.

my feet would fill with dirt inside my sandals

and my sister and I, hands firmly together

would giggle as other children swarmed us

speaking words we could not understand

knowing we were safe

for you were always

just one step behind us

I can smell the beach,

feel the rocks tucked between my toes,

feel how scared I was to swim in over my head.

how fearless you seemed then,

a giant,

conquering waves the size of me with no concern

holding my hand fast,

warning me of the many dangers

of stingrays and glass and riptides.

my fear was not as strong as my love for you

and together we would crash into the water

shaking salt from our hair.

I would sleep like the dead on the drive home,

scattering sand,

hanging limp from my pink booster seat,

dreaming of someday finding

a whole sand dollar instead of a half.

when I say I did not have a good childhood,

these are not the years I speak of

these are the years I dream of

when I lie awake at night thinking

‘what if?’